Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow
by Spectral Scribe
Summary: There would have been a time for such a word. Now there is: important snapshots from season 2. Episode based drabbles, mostly Deancentric. Rated for graphic images and some swearing.
1. Lather, Rinse, Repeat

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural.

_A/N:_ I just discovered how much fun drabbling could be; it releases things that you really want to say, and it only takes about five or ten minutes to write! So this'll be a compilation of SN drabbles. Inspiration will probably hit with each new episode, so be warned for spoilers. I'll probably end up doing about a drabbler per episode for S2, if the mood strikes, but it's nothing ongoing; each drabble is a separate entity unto itself, so read as you see fit. And kindly drop a note if you so please; criticisms are always welcome!

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**Lather, Rinse, Repeat**

By Spectral Scribe

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Dig through mounds of thick, grainy dirt. Six feet of suffocating, rank, everywhere dirt that smudges and cries with rain and makes mud. And—at last!—a large, wooden box.

Salt the decomposing, brittle bones and tattered scraps of clinging flesh. A boxful of suffocating, rank, everywhere bones that reek of death, but now covered with a fine layer of crystalline glitter.

Burn the fetid concoction—spread the joyful, clementine-orange flames that disintegrate the bones and create ash. A crumbling hole of leaping, crackling, singing fire that curls up, smoke-like, into the festering air.

Dig. Salt. Burn.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.


	2. The Shattering of Glass

**The Shattering of Glass**

By Spectral Scribe

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Shattering glass echoes and falls like glitter, and the crash is a purgation of pent-up rage. The broken glass is beautiful, falling, crystalline, onto the pavement, and it momentarily takes his mind off the burning in his gut.

_Slam. _It leaves a dent in the newly readjusted metal, which would never have been fixed, anyway—he knows that now. It won't be like it was before.

_Slam. _Dad. _Slam. _Sam. _Slam. _Himself.

The motion tears through his muscles, and his adrenaline spikes until he can't stop, can't stop.

He might as well leave it broken if it can't be fixed.


	3. In a Blink

**In a Blink**

By Spectral Scribe

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_"I didn't blink."_

In that moment, Dean sees Sammy: glistening fangs, pale face. And he sees himself: stake ready, blade poised.

He sees the blood, and the betrayal in his eyes, and the darkness circling around the pooling crimson liquid. Shadows snake around his brother's headless body, and there's a mantra—evil, kill, evil, kill, evil—circling like a vulture.

It's bitter and cold and tastes like bile. Hollowness swallows him up as the colors fade, and he can't close his eyes, can't look away. There was a line, but now he's blind.

Everything is gray.

_"And neither would you."_


	4. Wrecked, Solitary, Here

**Wrecked, Solitary, Here**

By Spectral Scribe

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Green leaves wilted and shriveled away, shrank into shadows, dried up, turned brown like the crumbling flowers. All desiccated, all withered, all wasted to a fragile crisp. All dead.

No great oceans of water could re-hydrate the poor, pathetic plants; no nutrients nor hearty sunlight could revive them from the hollow, empty state they now assumed.

_What's dead should stay dead._

The hood was warm with early morning sun; alive. Like him.

But all his bone-dry heart's salt tears could not refresh the dead pit within him. There _had_ to be something to make it all right.

Sam said nothing.


	5. Simon Didn't Say

**Simon Didn't Say**

By Spectral Scribe

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Simon says: pick up a gun.

Your hands are easy on any lethal weapon, like liquid steel. Circumstance has pushed you into it.

Simon says: threaten your neighbor.

You're no stranger to suggesting violence when things get hairy. It's more your brother's style, but it gets the job done.

Simon says: hunt.

Hey, it's a lifestyle. Nothing wrong with that.

Now, murder.

You know that circumstance is not what you fear; it is the knowledge that when you fall into darkness, you will pull the trigger of your own volition, not because the demon told you to.

…Simon didn't say.


	6. Broken Bottles

**Broken Bottles**

By Spectral Scribe

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His daddy was scary sometimes, and he didn't smile anymore. He was always reading books with creepy pictures that gave Dean nightmares. And shooting stuff.

The bottles were lined up in a row. Dean fumbled awkwardly with the too-big gun in his too-small hands, summoning confidence he didn't have.

Lifting the gun, he recalled Daddy's lessons on aiming and firing. Squinting at the first bottle, he pulled the trigger.

The gun bucked back in his face, and the bottle exploded into tiny shards of glass. Daddy smiled.

Dean thought if he could keep getting bull's-eyes, his daddy would love him.


	7. Are We There Yet?

**Are We There Yet?**

By Spectral Scribe

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Dean popped his lips.

Sam grunted, shifting his book over his furrowed brow. A lovely view of endless yellow fields of nothingness rolled by. Two cows. A bale of hay. A winding country road.

John drove in silence; Dean popped his lips.

Groaning throatily, Sam smacked his book against the back of the front seat and shouted, "I'm trying to _read!_" Raising his eyebrows as if to ask what had crawled up Sam's ass and died, Dean returned to the window as Sammy calmed and returned to his book.

One cloud. Lots of corn. A silo.

Dean popped his lips.


	8. The Devil's in the Details

**The Devil's in the Details**

By Spectral Scribe

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Her eyes shone deep, blood red.

The devil's in the details: he knows, if natural course returns, then ten years down it will return to haunt him.

Ten years of everything (he ever wanted). Ten years, and down descend the hounds, to rip and tear with gnashing, sharpened teeth.

It's a bonus; but it's not enough.

His grave is dug, and down he slides, tipping over. It's a relief: to end, to stop, because _I can't do this anymore._

It wouldn't be sacrifice, because it is respite.

Sammy would be the one to pay the price.

For that, he'll live.


	9. Do Not Go Gentle

**Do Not Go Gentle**

By Spectral Scribe

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There was no choice for Dean, really.

Sam was light in his suffocating darkness, and Dean would be blind without it. If that light went out, he'd be damned if he was left alone in the dark. He'd be damned if he didn't go out with it.

So he shut himself in the room with the oppression of imminent death looming heavy in the air.

Because it wasn't worth it. Not without Sam.

He was so _tired_. He couldn't do it anymore.

So he shut himself in the room with his brother.

And waited for the dying of the light.


	10. Fire and Ice

**Fire and Ice**

By Spectral Scribe

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A flash. A bang.

God, _no_. Anything but this. Anything but smelling his burnt flesh and seeing his ashy remnants scatter over the floor, the only evidence of his existence. Anything but the hollow void he'd leave behind—what Mom left, and Dad.

There's silence, stillness. Maybe…?

A second flash. A bigger bang.

Heat rushes against my back as it fans outward, and I can do nothing to stop the horror rising in my throat, gagging me as I try to draw in a breath, to scream. There's pain, god no, please, _FUCK!_

I'm alone.

He's dead. Sam is dead.


	11. Promises

**Promises**

By Spectral Scribe

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This time, Sam's not a happy drunk.

Last time, shot after shot of Tequila had Sam flirting with the bartender with the eloquence of a drugged elephant. And when they started the karaoke? Dean practically pissed himself. He let Sam have it for _weeks_ about how tone-deaf he was, as well as his unfortunate musical choice of REO Speedwagon. Shame Dean didn't have a video camera.

Now? Now, the mixture of Whiskey and Jaeger has Sam making Dean promise to kill him.

He kind of wants some alcohol himself. But he knows what kind of drunk _he_ is.

"I promise."


	12. Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

**Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow**

By Spectral Scribe

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Aside from the mandroid garbage, Dean kind of likes Ronald.

He likes his willingness to find the truth. His quirky, if not foolhardy, determination.

Only now, half cast in shadows, Ron is being gunned down, and that expression of incredulous surprise won't leave his naïve face.

Dean isn't naïve. But something inside him breaks.

Tomorrow he could have found a geeky girlfriend. Tomorrow he could have written a science fiction novel about cybermen. Tomorrow he could have been a hunter.

But tomorrow won't come for Ronald anymore.

He's just another soldier lost to a war he didn't even know existed.


	13. Pray for us Sinners

**Pray for us Sinners**

By Spectral Scribe

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Dean doesn't believe in angels.

He understands Sam's opinion, but he doesn't believe. Nor does he think that's such a bad thing.

With all the evil running amok, not once have they seen "greater good." But that's okay. They destroy the evil anyway.

Some people are so fucked-up they make demons look like unicorns. But some are worth saving. And some are willing to _do_ the saving.

Like him and Sam. Like Dad.

He knows they aren't particularly great role models. But they do Good, and that's enough. Because Dean believes in _people_.

And he figures, who needs angels anyway?


	14. Possession

**Possession**

By Spectral Scribe

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Noise.

Screaming, cursing. A bottle shattering on the wall above some kid's head. A gentle curl of smoke from his own lips. Blood. Flashes of faces. Darkness.

"_I'd rather die."_

Blonde hair tangled in his sweaty fingers. A gun heavy in his hand.

Dean… disappearing into choppy, black water.

Dean… crying out in pain as a crimson trail arcs over his lips and down his chin.

Dean. Refusing to shoot.

There is pain, and there is light and noise and flashes like lightning. And he is trapped, trapped, like a prisoner, like a comatose patient, inside his own body.

Watching.


	15. Freakin' Siamese Twins

**Freakin' Siamese Twins**

By Spectral Scribe

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When Dean starts griping about Sam being a whiney geek with a laptop obsession, and Sam starts bitching about Dean being a pig (in more ways than one), I hit my wits' end. It's just like the Nair incident, which Sam hasn't forgotten (and might be overcompensating for), and the laxative-in-the-coffee incident, which is why Dean cranks up the radio whenever he has to take a shit.

I wonder if these boys'll ever grow up. My guess, when they explain the fight over Sam's money, is no.

For the first time in my life, I feel sorry for John Winchester.


	16. Parting Is All We Know

**Parting Is All We Know**

By Spectral Scribe

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It's not like she wasn't _hot_. She was—for a ghost.

That's what made his skin crawl: she was the _victim_—and a ghost. Dean didn't _like_ ghosts. They were evil. The end.

But Molly wasn't evil. Whenever he saw her, he wanted to fix everything, but all he could think was _I don't know where you're going after this_.

She was hot. He caught himself off guard once, almost flirting—but _she's been dead fifteen years._ And _I don't know where you're going after this._

Dean's not sure what he believes about "heaven"—but he does believe in hell.


	17. Anthem of the Damned

**Anthem of the Damned**

By Spectral Scribe

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You did it, Sammy. You saved her.

The beast relented under faithful silver, and the damsel got her wish. The knight fulfilled his duty in the moonlit night, his prize a silver bullet dipped in blood.

You did it, Sam. You killed her.

You did what you've been asking of me all along. Hypocrisy slipped out the window, leaving behind a cold, pitiless breeze.

You did it. But I can't.

The damsel in distress will fall, the knight a coward clad in steel.

I can't save you, Sammy. I can't kill myself.

There are some wounds that will never heal.


	18. Only a Movie

**Only a Movie**

By Spectral Scribe

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Dean has seen it all.

Mispronounced faux-Latin; fake, cheesy ghosts; cliché vamps with Transylvanian accents. He's seen paint-red blood, overdone makeup, and bad exposition. He's seen monsters who don't exist, demons who enjoy hell, and man-eating aliens.

He soaks it up like a sponge, critiques it all—_that's unrealistic, that's overdone, that's flat-out wrong._ Critters 3. Carnivore Carnival. Poltergeist. Ghost Ship. He loves it.

Sam thinks he's weird.

But he's also seen a demon in his brother; a fire eat his mother; a vampire nearly murder his father; blood; death. Unhappy endings.

He sometimes wishes real life were a movie.


	19. Disappearing Act

**Disappearing Act**

By Spectral Scribe

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Those boys are slipperier than silk sliding on a patch of ice. They're like smoke. They're the best magicians I've ever met.

Perhaps once or twice I've wondered about the oddities in their file… perhaps I'd like to get them alone sometime and force them to reveal the real story.

But for now, it's my job—my mission!—to find them. And how can I do that when they melt away like frost _right under my nose?_

They can't run forever. Sooner or later, our paths will cross. I'll get them.

And that will be a day of sweet victory.


	20. What a Wonderful World

**What a Wonderful World**

By Spectral Scribe

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She smells like cookies and looks like sunlight. There are photos upon photos of a nonexistent, perfect life; of dates and family and baseball. Happiness is a cozy home, a maternal refuge, and smiles frozen in time.

What a wonderful world.

Happiness is an empty trunk, a distant brother, and too much beer.

What a wonderful world.

Happiness is hundreds dead, false security, and nobody cares.

There will never be happiness; there _can_ never be happiness. We sacrifice everything because there is no other way. It isn't fair, but neither is happiness. Nothing is ever perfect.

What a wonderful world.


	21. The End

**The End**

By Spectral Scribe

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He falls like the rain tumbling gracefully to the ground. The world is falling… falling… like leaves, crisp and crimson, in autumn.

I try to catch him.

He's heavy, eyes rolling back, and _god no_, the blood is crisp and crimson on his back. The world is falling…

_I'm going to protect you, Sammy. Please…_

We collapse together as the rain falls, my hands gripping him tightly to me as he drifts away. This can't be the end. His head lolls emptily; I can't let go. Descending water stings and blurs.

This can't be…

…the world is falling…

…the end.


	22. Don't Look Back

_A/N:_ Whew, I made it through an entire season, 22 drabbles! I think this is where I stop. Thank you to anyone who bothered to poke around here; I hope you enjoyed them as little additions to the episodes. Here's the last one, and I'll call this compilation complete—but who knows what season 3 will bring?

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**Don't Look Back**

By Spectral Scribe

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Sam is stiff beside me—shocked and disbelieving. My smile puts a crease in his forehead.

An energy hums inside me like the Impala's engine: Sam's alive, Dad's not in hell, and there are two hundred demons for us to waste. The colt is warm in my hand.

For a year, the world has been a broken puzzle, pieces strewn and mixed; now it's as though they've been put back together. It feels _right_.

Now's not the time to look back on all the crap that's happened. Now's the time to hunt some demon ass.

We've got work to do.


End file.
